Thirty pushes and two breaths, by Megan Lyall

An original contemporary blog.

Every Tuesday evening I drag six plastic dummies out of a cupboard at the leisure centre and lay them on the floor of the squash court. By seven o’clock they are surrounded by fifteen-year-olds who would rather be anywhere else. By half past eight, most of them could keep a stranger alive until an ambulance arrives.

I have taught first aid for eleven years, and the part of the course that matters most takes less than a minute to explain. You place the heel of one hand in the centre of the chest, put the other hand on top, lock your elbows and press down hard, about five or six centimetres, at a speed of between one hundred and one hundred and twenty compressions a minute. I play a pop song with the right beat through a speaker so that they can keep time. The dummies click when the push is deep enough, and the room soon sounds like a field of crickets.

The teenagers always ask what happens if they break a rib. I tell them the truth: it can happen, and a broken rib can heal, but a heart that has stopped will not restart by itself. That answer quietens them more than anything else I say all evening.

Last spring, a girl who had done the course used it on her grandfather in a supermarket car park. He sent me a card.

(a) How fast should the chest be pressed, according to the writer? (b) Why does the writer play a pop song during the lesson? (c) Why does the writer say the teenagers should not worry about breaking a rib?